I used to want everything on my terms—right now, my way, or not at all. But the funny thing was, I never put in much effort to make those desires a reality. More often than not, I’d give up before I even started, running straight to the bottle to numb the sting of disappointment. Life never bent to my will, and rather than adapting, I withdrew, drowning my frustrations in alcohol, letting it become both my refuge and my downfall.
In my head, I’d already failed before I even tried. I was always playing out every possible scenario, hunting down the worst outcomes, convincing myself it was all pointless. One of the greatest sources of fear for me was simply speaking—especially around people I didn’t know well. The words never came out right, never matched what was in my head. And writing was just as terrifying. As a child, I was told I had dyslexia, and instead of pushing through, I gave up. What was the point of writing if no one would understand me? The few times I did try, I was met with ridicule, which only reinforced the fear.
What hurt the most was that I noticed things—things others didn’t seem to see. I wanted to share my experiences, my thoughts, my perspective on the world, but fear kept me silent. My mind became a crowded, noisy place, and when I discovered alcohol and drugs, they became the ultimate mute button. For a while, they seemed like my greatest allies, the answer to my inability to express myself. But like all illusions, they turned on me, becoming my worst enemy. And yet, without them, who was I? Like a superhero without a villain, I had no sense of purpose beyond the battle.
This cycle of fear and avoidance shaped most of my adult life. Even as I drank to escape, I somehow managed to get by. Looking back, I think I was blessed—whether it was my mum’s unwavering prayers to her God or my dad’s constant reassurance that he was proud of me. Despite my lack of confidence, I always found work and seemed to do well, as long as the job interested me. But deep down, I was still just winging it, surviving rather than living, trapped in a loop of internal doubt and external self-destruction.
Eventually, the drink stopped working. The escape I’d relied on for so long only made things worse. I was exhausted. The day I finally let go—the day I walked into AA—was the day I stopped running. That surrender didn’t just save my life; it gave me one. Through the programme, I began to believe in myself, to love the person I was rather than the one I had always tried to escape from. And, perhaps most importantly, I found the courage to express myself without fear. Today, my voice—spoken or written—is no longer locked away. I no longer need the bottle to silence my mind because, for the first time, I am learning to live in peace with it.
That doesn’t mean I’m perfect, far from it. I still make mistakes—a lot of them. I still stumble over my words, especially when I speak, and sometimes they come out all wrong. But the difference now is, I don’t let fear control me. I no longer worry about what other people think, because I’ve learned that the people who truly matter don’t mind, and the ones who mind don’t matter. I used to let fear of judgement dictate my actions, but today, I live by a different standard. I accept that I’m human, that I’ll get things wrong, and that’s okay. Progress, not perfection, is what keeps me moving forward. Every day is an opportunity to grow, to learn, and to be a little better than I was yesterday.
Imperfect Progress
The wanting, a clenched fist,
everything on my terms, now,
a child's tantrum against the wind.
But the hand remained empty,
effort a ghost,
disappointment's sting, a familiar friend.
The bottle, a dark river,
a refuge, a drowning,
life's unyielding current, unable to surface.
Failure, a pre-written script,
every shadow a monster,
words, choked in the throat, a silent scream.
Dyslexia, a label, a wall,
ridicule's sharp stones,
the unspoken, a heavy burden.
Yet, the seeing, the noticing,
the world's whispers, unheard,
a mind, a crowded vast space.
The mute button, the false ally,
a temporary silence, a deeper chaos,
the villain's mask, a hollow purpose.
The getting by, a shadow dance,
prayers and pride, a fragile thread,
survival's loop, a cage of doubt.
The drink, a broken promise,
exhaustion's weight, a final surrender,
AA's door, open wide.
Letting go, a rebirth,
self-love, a slow blooming,
the voice, freed from its prison.
Stumbles and missteps, human echoes,
fear's grip, loosened,
the opinions of others, a distant hum.
Progress, not perfection, the path unfolds,
acceptance, a gentle breeze,
each day, a chance to grow, to be.
The mind, once a battlefield,
now a quiet garden,
peace, a slow, steady rain.
The words, imperfect, but true,
spoken, written, a flowing stream,
the self, no longer hidden, but revealed.
